(5) Nocturne 2023: Paralysis (Section 5)

PARALYSIS

An echo of a heartbeat, swallowed by void. You are falling, yet painfully still. This world shifts, rejecting your reality. Rip soul from skin, snap bones to break shackles. Stare into the eyes of this realm as it cuts through your eyelids and you tumble into its jaws. It is breathless, it is hungry.

A hitch, a tear.

Spat back into stillness.

Wonder. What is worse: To be frozen or to fall?

LABOR

POETRY BY ABIGAIL SWANSON

The sound of labor is a rustling, your thousand tiny hands sewing perfect seams in a pink-red sweatshop.

A bleeding mother typing, 150 WPM. Lights

bright like suns. It kills

like a poison. Dinner every night tinged with something,

a who-knows-what-something. It’s your fault,

all the sick days and sick weeks and checks for the widow.

The price of labor is $7.25/hour.

Everybody looks like they’re dying. You all come in

sick, ooze. Slick cupid’s bows red and peeling. All your bodies collapse to the ground at once.

Born in labor, dead in labor.

TIED WITH A SMILE MIXED MEDIA

BY LIVIA BARBRE

Sick sick sick. The whole lot. Nobody wants to work anymore. Sick

on a Sunday, never on a Monday. Labor looks like perfect attendance. Did you know that a corpse can smile if you make it? If you stick your fingers in its mouth and pull. The taste of labor is formaldehyde.

Bodysnatchers stealing corpses from the ground. Weeping for milk. But they suckle on nothing. You can offer absolutely nothing. An empty machine

with an empty heart, empty brain, strong arms gives more nothing, more nothing, forever.

MEGASTRUCTURE

DIGITAL ART BY HAN MELLENBRUCH

10:48

POETRY BY PAULINE SEING

My fingers twitching, my body aches.

It’s never good enough.

Life is actually quite beautiful if you take the seconds to feel it but it’s never good enough.

Even when I sink into the abyss of my own mind. My fingers twitching.

It turns 10:48. My body aches. And I am still alive

THE SAINT

PROSE BY LILLIE DIRKS

In the beginning, I woke slowly. My consciousness wandered in a forest of thick fog and dry howling, and the closer I looked, the more I realized my surroundings were strange, jaded. Mundane, ordinary sights shifted into the unrecognizable.

I was everywhere, everything, all at once.

I was the warped walls, directionless dimension, the simultaneous beating of a dozen hearts, the soft breath of fresh air in a sealed room, the dust on a locked box. I was the floor and the ceiling and the light and the shadow. I was the question that shrouded dark corners: Do you want it to be true?

But most of all, I was the nothingness that lay beyond.

“Hey, wake up!”

My lungs twinged in protest as I filled them with too much air too quickly. Before me was a young girl. It took me a few seconds to identify her features, wild blue hair, watery green eyes, and mottled dark skin.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” I asked, trying to dispel the echoes of madness from my mind. I tapped my thumb rhythmically against my fingers to ground myself.

Index, middle, ring, pinky. Index, middle, ring, pinky.

“Oh, thank god!” the girl started, “I was so scared. We were waiting for you to wake up, but it had been days and you wouldn’t, and then the room started collapsing, and you were seizing—”

“What? Wait, wait, slow down.”

She clamped her mouth shut and gestured wildly.

“We’re trapped here! Stuck! We’ve tried everything, but there’s no way out!”

“Just open the door. It’s not locked or anything.”

“There isn’t a door!”

“What do you mean? It’s right there.” I pointed toward my bedroom door, only…

It wasn’t there.

Come to think of it,

“This isn’t my room,” I gasped, “What the hell is this place?”

“We don’t know,” the girl sobbed, tears finally spilling down her cheeks, “But there’s no food or water. We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

I climbed to my feet, back aching from laying on the ground. I was surrounded by infinite pearly, empyrean shelves overflowing with pale books and geometric figures, gently illuminating the large space as they bobbed amicably in the air, never too close nor too far from the supporting panel below. Above, the air thickened into a heavenly white void that swirled and hummed with life.

A dozen people ambled about, their lungs poisoned by dejection and unease. They heard the commotion, but were busy watching the shelves with wary eyes.

“Who are these people?” I asked, shaking the pins and needles from my feet.

“I don’t know,” the girl replied, “but they don’t know where we are either.”

Strange, I thought, I could have sworn that this was my room. It felt brazenly, undeniably, uncomfortably familiar. The air was heavy with the humming, insistent call: you are home.

“It doesn’t look like my room, but it feels like it. No, it is. This is my space, my realm,” I muttered, my hand over my mouth. A radiating melody deep within my psyche pulsed in a language I understood, but couldn’t explain.

“What are you talking about?” the girl squeaked.

“You said something earlier? Seizing? The room was collapsing?”

“No, wait, yes? I—”

The energy resonated, oscillating, commanding my attention.

“Something pulled you here, all of you, where you shouldn’t be. I reacted to the transgression strongly, but something pushed me back, stabilized it.”

“I don’t understand—”

“But why? Why here? Oh, I see…”

“Wait!” the girl cried, “what are you—?”

I pushed past her, stepping toward the center of the space, my space. I took a deep breath and spoke the hymn within. The room darkened as the luminescence faded and I raised my hand to meet the thousands of glittering specks of energy raining from the void. They swirled and condensed together on the tip of my finger, pulsing with anticipation.

Around me, startled gasps and cries clashed with murmurs of awe and wonder. Those who had been ambling drew closer, pulled in by a palpable illusion of gravity.

The energy at my fingertip burst, blinding the flock. When they opened their eyes, they were met with a new sight.

The vast space had transformed into a smaller, more defined room lined with doorways. The floor was a pale carpet that wove in and out of itself, layering into small ledges and stairs that led down to lower planes.

“Hello. My name is Collin. Welcome to my realm.” My voice carried over the small crowd, amplified by the melody in my mind.

“Who are you?” an elderly woman cried.

“Are you some sort of god?” an old man shouted.

“Or the devil?” another retorted.

“I am not a god, and I’m certainly not a demon or anything of the sort,” I called, “I am who I always have been, and always will be.”

“A saint.” A chorus of murmurs surged through the gathering. “He must be.”

The pulsating melody surged, incanting in dry tones: Do you want it to be true?

“Why have you brought us here, Saint?”

“Have we been saved?”

“Is this heaven?”

“Paradise?”

“Nirvana?”

“Purgatory?”

“Hell?”

I hummed, and the floor snaked together beneath me, carrying me toward the void. Below, the blue-haired girl

shivered.

“Calm down, please. This isn’t the afterlife, and you haven’t been saved. I did not call you here, I am simply your warden.” I surveyed the flock beneath me, how they trembled and whispered among themselves. “I know why you are here, though I don’t know who you are.

“Each door leads to a room for each of you. Get comfortable, because this is where you will be spending the rest of your lives. And no, there is no way for you to leave. Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

Hissing, the floor lowered to its original position and I stepped off. Pain flashed behind my temples and I felt dizzy, but the feeling barely lasted a moment. The girl stepped forward, pulling on her hair.

“So what now?” . . .

Months passed in relative peace as I toiled away, fulfilling requests from my adherents. While they feared and revered me, they had no qualms about working me to the bone.

Nonetheless, I wasn’t going to deny them their entertainment. Why would I? I felt sorry for them, being forced into such a fate. They deserved to finish their lives in peace and happiness.

So, I ignored my building exhaustion and the whispers of dissatisfaction and accusations of abandonment that traveled through my halls. The inmates had no idea what they would soon face, and were content to indulge in the luxuries I offered them.

None of them wondered whether or not they deserved any of it.

Not one.

Until, that is, they noticed—

“My hands!” Meredith wailed, “they’re ruined!” The door to the older woman’s chambers slammed open as she stomped out, her robe flapping merrily as she moved.

She halted in the center of the main room and turned her face to the void.

“Saint! Come down and help me!”

Groggily, I descended from my perch above. It was the best place to rest, as the masses bothered me least when I was out of their reach.

“What seems to be the problem?” I inquired, barely clinging to my last shred of politeness.

“Look! My fingers!” She waved her hands around, panic stricken, “They’ve turned—They’re not—Look!”

By this time, the other inmates were all watching, intrigued by the sudden commotion.

Meredith’s fingers had all turned white, down to the knuckle. I gently grasped them in my hands and found that they were hard, like stone. A fine layer of white dust soon covered my palms.

“So it has begun,” I said, nodding grimly. “I’ll do what I can.”

Gathering what strength I had left, I connected with the cacophonous chords and spoke their tongue. When it was done, the discoloration had retreated to the second digits of her fingers.

“Done. I apologize, but that is all I can do for you.” I turned and prepared to finish my nap.

“Excuse me? Where are you going?” she snapped, indignant. “My hands are still revolting.”

I took a deep breath. “As I said, that is all I can do. Excuse me, I need to rest.”

The crowd swarmed closer, drawn in.

“All that you can do? As if! You just don’t care to finish what you started. What a child! I bet if this was that little blue-haired Vee girl you would have put them back already without the ludicrous ‘tired’ act. You know, we all know that you have been planning to dispose of us, up on your high horse. This all but confirmed it.”

Do you want it to be true?

“Meredith, please, I really—”

A burst of white powder exploded near my chest, and the flock gasped.

“Really? Trying to assault your ‘Saint’ now? Is that truly how you feel you will win me over?” I glared, dusting myself off, “I’m sure that worked wonders for you in the past.”

Meredith stepped back, stumbling. “I didn’t—that wasn’t—”

A scream resounded through the hall, echoing through the petrified silence.

“Her hands!” Vee shrieked, “look at her hands!”

The older woman’s fingertips had shattered and were laying in chalky pieces on the floor. At the sight, Meredith crumpled, caught by the carpet stretching up to reach her.

I rubbed my temples and prepared myself for what was to come. I lifted myself into the air, hovering over the panic below. Within, the melody dipped into chaos, pounding in my ears. I hummed harmonies, stabilizing the energy that was condensing, sharp and ruthless.

“Quiet!”

The helpless turned their eyes toward me, pleading for answers.

“Your days of idle amusement are coming to an end. As you can see,” I gestured to the woman’s crumpled form, “your end is drawing near.”

The mass cried out in frantic dissonance, and the carpet began to burn, bleeding black patches and shadowy shapes.

“Are we dying?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why can’t you save us?”

“Have we been abandoned?”

“I won’t stay here any longer!”

“Let us out!”

The ache in my bones grew, spurred on by the discord below. Within my psyche, the chorus laughed, Do you, do you, do you?

“Enough!” I snarled, “Quit complaining! You have lived for months in luxury, blissfully and willfully ignorant of what was coming. You all were called here for a reason, and it’s simple. Your punishment has already been decided. Humans cannot survive in a realm that is not their own. You are all wasting away, and will continue to crumble, just like her.”

“Collin!” Vee cried, “How could you do this to us?”

Do you want it to be true?

“You truly have no shame!”

Do you want it to be true?

“He’s killing us!”

Do you want it to be true?

I took a deep breath, and unleashed the rising symphony that was roiling in my chest, releasing my last warning

to the flock I had tended to so diligently. The mystical illumination evanesced as shadows invaded, but no one listened.

“He’s the devil himself!”

In a snap of my fingers, the pulsing halted, converged, and burst. What was once nothing returned to nothing.

Do you need it to be true?

SPIRITUAL STATE

PAINTING BY PAUL SERNINE

SUBURBAN HOME

DIGITAL ART BY HAN MELLENBRUCH

UNTITLED

PAINTING BY CHARLIE KEEFE

SPOTLIGHT MACAW

PHOTOGRAPHY BY TRACY FAN

DROWNING IN LOVE

POETRY BY SOFIA BORJA

How much love you endured

It was suffocating wasn’t it

Being smothered to death by what people called love I love you, your father smiled as he left and never came back I love you, your mother cried as she hid with you in the motel I love you, your partner soothed as he used you for gain

How many more I love you’s could you handle before I love you became synonymous with I hate you

SCULPTURE BY LOLA SIDE

THE GODDESS OF INFECTION

DIGITAL ART BY M FISCHER

REQUIEM FOR THE SACRED

POETRY BY PAULINE SEING

What has become of you beautiful bastard child of god

Born of revolutionaries

bled for by untold saints

Now you sit unmoved by the screams of your brothers your sisters

Oh gluttonous stranger

you were once so beautiful

PITLESS CHERRIES

PROSE BY KEELY HOOD

Three times in seven years at this ironing board, she almost burnt down the room. At 6:00 AM, she irons alongside the taped programming on the box set television. While the coffee’s on, her hand guides the press over the faded blue hills and valleys of the fabric. Every few minutes she pauses to jot down a remark for the backburner of her mind—sharp one-liners from Fran Fine on The Nanny, whom she sees as her spiritual self. They are both from Queens, both from not much of anything, and both due for some luck. She irons in her cotton underwear because the air conditioning is for the guest rooms, not this closet of a room. She and the other live-in maids line a corner they call the slums of the hotel.

She could start a fire here. Scorch it all down. Say, if I don’t get air conditioning, you can all burn too. But it isn’t that humid today, she decides, so it can wait. She returns to her ironing with the steady breaths of counting sheep. Closing credits roll on The Nanny. Humming, Anita lifts the dress over her head, ties the waist, pins back her hair, and sets her stale coffee in the sink.

At 7:00 AM, she’s off. She shuts the door by half-leaning against it, then trudges down the stairs to the back room, where Randy sits in a big fur because of that cold air they can seemingly afford to disperse everywhere but the maid rooms. When she enters, he will say “Morning, honey,” because he doesn’t call any of the staff by their names and likely wouldn’t know Anita if someone came around asking for her.

Randy’s big fur looks like something he lifted from one of the wealthy older women he spends his time with. These women, in part, fund the hotel. Like a hunter’s trophy, the leopard hangs limply off of his lean body in an overblown declaration of what he must think is suave. He sits with his boots on the desk, only standing when all of the staff are gathered.

The thing about Randy is he thinks he is a pimp, despite being half a gigolo himself. “Round it up, ladies,” he says when this back room is full of blue uniforms like Anita—always smoking, always touching, always with an air of misplaced pride. He is not the hotel owner. He runs it, in a sense. No one knows what his job title is or what he does after sorting the maids in the mornings. The “ladies” pass around theories under their breath when they scatter for their duties.

Anita rolls a cart down the long hallway and counts the lilies on

the hotel carpet. There are five hundred of them from end to end of each floor. For every door with a sign on the handle, she follows the routine.

She starts by stripping the bed(s). Some guests make them up, which is a well-intended but meaningless gesture, as she will always have to make them over again. After beating the pillow(s) back into shape, she tucks a mint beneath each. Then, the bathroom. Then, the general sweep. Some guests leave tips for her services on the bedside table, along with other indications of their identity: books, medications, and notes they’ve left for themselves on the pad by the rotary phone.

Anita’s third room of the morning doesn’t have a cash tip, but it has a lottery ticket and not so much as a quarter to scratch it with. The ticket isn’t a numbers game that requires you to tune into the radio. It’s a bingo card, a five-by-five board with simple instructions: if you get five cherries in a row, you get big bucks.

Anita picks it up for the hell of it and scratches it with her red nails. Her hands are the prettiest part of her, the only part of her she really takes care of. This act, the scratching, is more degrading than picking up the ticket in the first place. It makes her feel animalistic. She scratches away the first silver circle. Red peeks through, the same shade as her nails.

Cherry.

The silver is getting under her nails now, and she hates to dirty them, but she moves to the next.

Cherry.

A rush builds in her chest, and she tells herself not to feed into it.

Cherry.

Don’t get any funny thoughts, Anita.

Cherry.

Thoughts spread in a wildfire—a white-hot rush between the silver and the red. She can hardly keep the ticket still, wrists bloated by their beating pulse.

Cherry.

Hands trrembling, she leaves the room half-finished to go back to her own, where the ironing board still sits and the coffee waits in the sink, never to be cleaned. She will never clean another day in her life.

In a matter of five minutes, she throws her things into a laundry

bag.

Down the hall she goes, a perked clack in the short black heels of her uniform.

The elevator takes a lifetime, the tropical music telling her to stay a while longer. She’s not allowed on the elevator unless she has the supplies cart. It doesn’t matter this morning. After getting off, she blows through the backroom door without the knock she has been trained to do.

He is looking over a girly magazine with his feet propped up on the desk.

“Randy, I’m leaving.”

“See you in the morning.”

“I’m leaving.” She holds up the winning ticket.

“Sure.” He doesn’t look up.

“I’m never stepping foot in this hotel again. Neither will the other girls as soon as they get back on their feet,” she says with a slam of the door.

She and the other maids had been trying to get back on their feet for as long as she can remember. This makes her the only one to make it out. Second thoughts gnaw at her, so she bites the inside of her mouth to chew on fear and guilt. She cannot desert. She cannot go through it alone. She has money now, but that’s it. She’s never been on her own, not really— not a high school degree, not any sense of where she wants to go.

Turning the corner, she runs right into another one of the maids, Gina.

By the time she’s finished talking, Anita is almost panting. How much can change in a morning.

be refreshing, but she is dead scared by it. Everybody’s got somebody but her.

Gina pecks her cheek. “Go. Get out of here. Don’t stop until you’re on a beach somewhere, alright?”

“Give my best to the other girls.”

“Sure thing.”

“I’m going.” Anita starts off, half-running down the hall because she knows if she stays another minute she will lose the strength. “I’m going!”

UNTITLED

PAINTING BY CHARLIE KEEFE

And she does.

In the rush of it, she didn’t think to change. She will soon have the time and money to buy fresh clothes, like Fran Fine’s matching sets. Before walking into the gas station, she tears the apron off her uniform so it’s passable as a collared blue dress.

Her perked heels clack up the parking lot, all the way to the young and scruffy gas station attendant.

Slipping the ticket over the counter, she clears her throat: “I’d like to cash this in, please, if you could call up whoever dishes it out. I don’t really know how it works. I’ve never done this before.”

“Let me see.” He looks at the ticket on the counter, flaccid-faced. “This is a gag gift.”

“A what?”

“You know, a gag. A joke. A put-on. Surely whoever handed it to you told you that after they saw your face.” He pushes it back her way and taps the fine print on the back.

She clutches at Gina’s arm: “Come on. Let’s Thelma and Louise out of here. They’ll eat our dust. Randy’s going to choke on it. With both of us gone, he’ll have to do the work himself.” A laugh scratches her throat.

“You know I can’t,” Gina responds. “I’ve got to get Joe through school.”

Joe, Gina’s son. The heat of the moment made Anita forget. Remembering it makes her alone again. She supposes it should

“You mean these five cherries aren’t worth a damn thing?”

Five pitless cherries, somewhere out there a leopard with pitless eyes, herself with pitless pockets. A streak of five losing days, again and again.

“A laugh, that’s all.”

“A laugh,” Anita repeats hard enough to shed a grating silence. She brings a hand to her temple, heat in her face and spreading down the rest of her body.

The attendant rifles through the register. “Look, I’ll give you five dollars for it, just ‘cause I hate to make a girl cry. It’s not funny if they don’t tell you. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

Anita shakes her head. She starts for her car, then turns on her heels. They scuff from the blunt force of it. She comes back for a singular item.

Ringing her up, the attendant asks, “You gonna be okay?”

“Soon.” She digs into her purse.

He shakes his head. “On the house.”

Tires burn rubber, turning into the parking lot she swore to never return to. She dumps everything out of the laundry bag and onto the floorboard. With the bag emptied, she puts her gas station purchase inside.

Anita takes the back way in. Slipping in Randy’s door, the room is dead. None of the other women and no Randy. He’s out for lunch with one of his sponsoring lady friends, the leopard skin thrown against the back of his chair.

Tough luck. He might not have given her the pitless cherries, but he has given her too little, too much.

Her red-nailed hands rummage through the desk for his American Spirit cigarettes and lighter. She lights up, puts the cigarette in her mouth, then heaves the laundry bag onto the desk. After taking the purchase out of the bag, she dumps it over the leopard skin like toilet detergent. It’s that same blue color, but not that same clean scent. A clean scent like that could get nauseating when it singed your nasal passages from years of scrubbing on your knees.

But this, it reeks of oil, heat, and anger. Seven unburnt years.

Anita puts the cigarette out on the kerosene.

/

BY SEGAN BETTENHAUSEN

GRAVEYARD COUTURE

PHOTOGRAPHY

BY DELANEY MCDERMED

WOLF

MIXED MEDIA BY CLOVER TYLER

I LAY HERE NO HEART OF MINE

POETRY BY PAUL SERNINE

My hands remain bound to the machine [FASTENED]

the impulses of electricity flowing from my fingers! falsified by encryption into a language only the machine knows.

MY FINGERS

Tear open the heart of the machine, lay its lifeless body open Life/Less{?} and yet it still mocks me!

/auch/ It slowly infects me!n GeH!Яn… Its words replace mine

/also/ It slowly infects my seele

Its essence exchanging with mine

And so the words I lay before you are not mine, but those produced by an amalgamation of both man and machine|the|words|are|not|my|own| theyarenotminethisisnotmyvoice

This is (not) [my_soul]

LOOKING PAST DEATH

MIXED MEDIA BY AUDREY MOREHEAD

THE

POETRY BY THOMAS GARMON

thick smoke hangs heavy and silent over the clearing off the freeway next to the trees you stand you inhale you cough you open your eyes see him it that thing not in black not in shadow bright and brilliant glowing white writhing black where eyes should be the beast approaches you static fills the air air fills the beast you trip you fall into yourself touch the face of god the beast approaches as you fall

WINDOWS TO THE SOUL

MIXED MEDIA BY CHRIS HARTWELL

“POISON?”

PHOTOGRAPHY BY DELANEY MCDERMED

COLOR WHEEL

PAINTING BY ANONYMOUS

ON MEDROXYPROGESTERONE

POETRY BY ALICIA HOCH

I am washing blood off my hands. The soap only sharpens the smell of iron. They say this is to prevent cancer as if I could avoid the stains of this disease.

The soap only sharpens the smell of iron. I ignore the eyes filled with pity next to me as if I could avoid the stains of this disease. “Is this your first time? Poor thing.”

I ignore the eyes filled with pity next to me. Down one pill, then three. “Is this your first time? Poor thing.”

I nod; sit and listen like a dog.

Down one pill, then three. They say this is to prevent cancer.

I nod; sit and listen like a dog.

I am washing blood off my hands.

APPLE

DIGITAL ART BY TRACY FAN

1, 2, 3

POETRY BY RILEY GAIKOWSKI

1, 2, 3 flies in the air

Entomophobia: Fear of insects

1, 2, 3 spiders on the wall

Arachnophobia: Fear of spiders

Some people have “entomophobia”

They get out a fly swatter

And slice it through the air

I wish I was like them

Some people have “arachnophobia”

They yell for their parents

And trap spiders under cups

I wish I was like them

I have entomophobia

And I have arachnophobia

It starts like an instinct, then it creeps Into my brain; it slithers and crawls

It buzzes and hums Louder and louder

Like a drum, about to burst Until it breaks

I flinch

I freeze

I run

I whimper

I hide

I scream

I scream like there’s a man trying to murder me

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

After all, it was just a moth

1, 2, 3 flies in the air

3 yards away, I still hide…

I still freeze

1, 2, 3 spiders on the wall

3 nights not in my room because…

What if they come back?

BLACK AND WHITE

DRAWING BY SNEHA THOMAS

RAVEN

SCULPTURE BY CLOVER TYLER

MARS BARS

MIXED MEDIA BY ISABELLE WILKINSON

FLEDGLINGS OF WAR

SPOKEN WORD BY ALICIA HOCH

I stepped off the bus to find the corpses of trees a burning village for sparrows. Throats meant for singing were screaming as they searched their decimated homes. Mirror images of parents pushing through a crowd of children for their own, desperately calling out the names of the dead. You hope for the worst.

You hope that the fledgling died upon impact from the bomb instead of suffocating under the rubble the same way you are suffocating now in frantic panic.

But hope is the thing with feathers and nothing flies in the ash-choked sky.

What is the song that means ‘I love you’? What notes capture ‘I will see you again’? Where is the space in heaven for the ones with hands that could fit in your palm whose wings were torn off from the blast?

Children are pulled away from their makeshift pyre of soil and crushed leaves.

Told in hushed tones that there are too many bodies to bury and not enough dirt to spare for bloodied feathers

Blue jays and goldfinches hop around the playground.

The hunger in their stomach is hidden by juvenile joy.

A nightingale trembles, malnourished body crushing its chest.

It opens its mouth and begs for food.

A double-headed eagle catches it and takes it home,

teaches it his language, his culture. Replaces its mother’s lullabies with national anthems, replaces its memories with a filtered history.

A gaunt face sees her eyes in the soldier that has just shot her husband.

A cowbird catches a glimpse of her wings in a flock of sparrows. She smiles, aching heart finally slowing. She has succeeded.

Her fledgling, her baby, will never have to worry about tall men ransacking her house. Her fledgling, her baby, will scowl at protests instead of sacrificing her voice to survive. Her fledgling, her baby, will have a nest when the bombs fall.

When the fire is over, bones rest in the ashes of their homes. A molting chick spreads them.

It prays that towering trees will spring from the gore, that their armored trunks will protect him from the poachers of innocence. Uniforms grin as their orchard is planted.

The sides of beaks bleed from biting at wire cages. Baby teeth have fallen in pools of blood outside of crates. When their eyes open for the first time in their life, it’s to blink away tears.

Far away we marvel at the rubble, envisioning the buildings we can make instead of recognizing what was there.

Parentless children make a brainwashed generation and dead birds make good ornaments for hats.

But pixelated screens can’t make you smell the smoke.

No news article can capture the wail of a screaming baby. No microphone can grasp the sound of that baby laying lifeless.

We don’t recognize the lack of songbirds. We don’t realize how loud the world should be. We don’t recognize the scars as wounds. We don’t realize that bombs can drown out everything.

We don’t realize that a child can recognize the air raid siren faster than its mother’s voice, faster than a cardinal’s song. Fledglings sing to themselves when they sleep and dream of the perfect tune with a limitless imagination. The imagination of a child.

What songs were the birds singing when the trees fell?

What dreams were the children dreaming when gunfire lulled them to sleep?

I like to hope that they found the music sheets for ‘peace.’

PICASSO PELICAN

PAINTING BY ABBY CROSSLEY

"NIGHT IS THE MOTHER OF THOUGHTS."

- JOHN FLORIO

STAFF BIOS

Delaney McDermed, Co-Editor, 12 — This is Delaney’s third year with the Freelancer and second year as co-editor. She has been honored to work with this year’s wonderful leaders and staff. Delaney is also active in theatre and competitive speech and drama at East.

Kate Whitefield, Co-Editor, 12 — Kate has been with Freelancer for a wonderful three years. She'd like to thank the Freeleaders, staff, and Mrs. Andersen for all the good times and valuable lessons they have been a part of. Kate is also a Thespian Exec, Chamber Choir singer, and StuCo class representative.

Sneha Thomas, Co-Editor, 12 — This is Sneha’s third year with Freelancer and first year as co-editor. She is very grateful to work closely with the leaders and staff to help create another successful and wonderful publication. Sneha is also a SHARE chair, Chemistry tutor, and NHS member at East.

Amy Andersen, Sponser — Mrs. Andersen is the SUPER proud sponsor of the Freelancer! She loves her hubby Tim, her golden retrievers Holly and Andie, coffee, Audrey Hepburn movies, and backpacking. She is grateful for the remarkable leadership of this year's Freeleaders and for the dedication of the entire staff!

Alicia "Cil" Hoch, Manager, 11 — Cil has been involved with Freelancer for three years and is currently holding the manager position this year. In addition to the Freelancer, they have been photographing for the East photo ark.

Caroline Wood, Design Editor, 12 — This will make Caroline's second year on staff after being called upon by the lovely Delaney and Kate last year for spread assistance. Beyond Freelancer, Caroline is a part of Harbinger, StuCo, and swim. Caroline is so happy with how Nocturne has turned out and hopes you enjoy!

Kate Beaulieu, Social Media Manager, 12 — Kate has been involved with Freelancer since her sophomore year, has previously been the Manager, and is now Social Media Manager. She has loved every second maintaining those positions and being involved with the club. She is also involved in varsity lacrosse, tennis, harbinger, and NHS!

Brennan Montalbano, 12 — Brennan has been involved with Freelancer for four years. He is also involved in SME Marching Band, Eastside Design, and National Art Honor Society.

Ayla Jeanne Ozkan, 12 — This is Jeanne’s second year on staff and she has loved every second of it! She is also involved with the IB program and Plus Club.

Yinghan Fan, 12 — 2 years staff member. Part of SHARE and NHS.

Lillie Dirks, 12 — This is Lillie’s second and final year with Freelancer. She has enjoyed being a part of staff and is so proud of the work that has been put into this edition. Lillie will miss joking around with Ms. Andersen in the back of the room and constantly saying “zoom in please” even though she is perfectly capable of moving closer to the screen.

Savannah Moore, 12 — This is Savannah’s second year on freelancer staff and is very grateful to have had the opportunity to work on the magazine. She is also involved in NHS enjoys creating cool artwork at SME.

STAFF BIOS

Harold Treml, 12 — Harry has been in Freelancer for two years now and is very happy to present the newest edition. He is also involved with orchestra and IB at SME.

Anna Borthwick, 12 — Anna has been on Freelancer for 3 years and she cannot wait for everyone to see the magazine. She is also involved with National Art Honors Society and IB at SME.

Kennedi Forsythe, 12 — Kennedi has been in Freelancer for two years, and she is excited to return to staff for this year’s issue. She is cannot wait to see what her final year at SME has to offer.

Nicko Friedman, 11 — Nicko’s been in Freelancer for two years now. They are also involved in the SME Fibercrafts club.

Tanya Hidalgo, 12 — This is Tanya’s first year on Freelancer staff and she’s so happy she could be apart of it! Tanya is also involved in with SHARE at SME.

Sofia Borja, 11 — Sofia has been in the Freelancer for one year and is so excited to continue working with everyone. She is also an IB student who enjoys challenging herself in school.

Greta Griffin, 12 — This is Greta’s second year on Freelancer staff. She hopes everyone is as impressed by the talent of the SME student body as she is!

Audra Gibbs, 11 — This is Audra’s second year with the Freelancer, and she’s pleased to say that it’s been even better than the last. She’s an avid reader and writer, and founder of the Fiber Crafts Club.

STAFF BIOS

Roslyn Carle, 11 — Roslyn has been apart of the Freelancer staff for two years now. This is the only thing she does.

Riley Gaikowski, 10 — This is Riley’s second year in freelancer as a staff member and she has had pieces published both years. She is also involved in Theatre at SME, environmental club, and international club.

Thomas Garmon, 10 — Thomas has been with the freelancer for two years and is also involved in the SME Choir program.

Ilse Griffin, 9 — This Ilse’s first year on staff and she is very grateful her sister convinced her to join.

Cate Gallagher, 10 — Cate has been involved in the freelancer for 2 years now and has loved the process! She is also involved in International club!

Illustrations by Nora Lynn

Staff Drawings by Brennan Montalbano

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

First and foremost, the Freelancer leadership team would like to thank our staff. This year’s group has been wonderfully passionate, inquisitive, and flexible. They have put their precious time, energy, and thought towards cultivating a product we are all proud of. We appreciate their authenticity, their propensity for laughter, and, of course, their love for art.

Next, we thank Mrs. Andersen, our sponsor. She is endlessly positive and supportive, and her intelligence and level-headedness are invaluable to our efforts. She goes above and beyond in helping her students express their creativity, always offering guidance with a smile.

We also greatly appreciate the students who submitted work to the magazine. By sharing their art with the world, they are making it a more honest and colorful place. We are ceaselessly inspired by the talent and skill of the creatives in our community.

Last but not least, we thank you, dear reader, for supporting the arts.

Delaney McDermed, Co-Editor

Sneha Thomas,

Co-Editor

Kate Whitefield, Co-Editor

Caroline Wood, Design Editor

Alicia Hoch, Manager